


Repairman's Fix

by Asasin



Category: Gears of War (Video Games)
Genre: Brooding (seriously Damon is a tough nut), Coming Out, Damon Baird in denial about his sexuality, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship, Love Confessions, M/M, Marcus being Marcus, My First Work in This Fandom, Private Masturbation, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, They work around it, Wartime Depressions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asasin/pseuds/Asasin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corporal Damon Baird is clever, snarky, and a smart-ass. He's one of the best when it comes to repairs. As far as Damon is concerned there's no task too difficult to be out of his reach. But after one pivotal conversation with his Sergeant, he finds himself in a "mess" he's almost too helpless to fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imbalance: Words That Deliver

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick notice: This story is one of those slower moving romances, so if you're looking for something more erotic with Marcus Fenix on Damon Baird action, I'd go check out altXmal's stories. And if you're looking for something focusing more on their (already developed) relationship with an interesting alternate universe twist see YourLovelyMajesty's stories. Both authors have amazing Marcus Fenix/Damon Baird stories, so I'd go check them out anyway!
> 
> On the timeline: This story is set during Gears of War 3 before any events in the game take place. Basically while the gears aren't being engaged by the locust or lambent and are just at sea.
> 
> That's all. Enjoy~

-Λ-

He smirks in self-satisfaction. The rugged quality of his handwork has refurbished the engine to a state of near perfection. His eyes swim with delight at the finished work. Throughout his whole life, little has come to satisfy the engineer more then fixing broken or breaking machinery (in most cases broken as shit). Even if he has to tinker away for hours on end, pulling out this, then that, and sometimes testing various theories to mend the engine's problem. Something fundamental? Factory defect? Dumbass job from shit-ass driving?

Baird is always willing boast he has fixed it all. And considering probability, he might just have actually done just that.

Whenever bored topside, he nestles himself comfortably in the ship's hull under the hood or underside of a vehicle and starts his magic. There is always something to fix. Machines are like people--they always have aches and groans, problems in short. But unlike people, and this is the part Baird likes, they can't bitch about them.

"Other men have actual friends, but Baird is such a pain in the ass, his are all metal," Sam had jested. But repairing clears his mind. He's good at. It's fun. What more reason does a guy need? No one bothers him. Hell, he might as well have found a variation of the gold at the end of the rainbow.

After he finishes grinning over the engine, he hauls the piece of artwork back towards its owner. Steadily working through the processes, he mentally checks out everything he needs to do. It's systematic and nearly thoughtless, but since a past... accident he has decided to be a bit more careful. Although in that particular situation he had been rushed... The blonde shakes his head. Idiots shouldn't have rushed him.

"Now where's that fucking wrench?" He mutters and starts fumbling around, feeling for the tool on the table set-up directly behind him.  
"Here." He jumps... only a little.  
"Hey asshole, watch it next time otherwise you might find a screwdriver stuck up your ass," he growls turning around and wondering how he didn’t hear any footsteps. Even though it's Marcus, the Corporal is not even slightly deterred to being respectful. One could say he had slight problems taking orders. Fenix merely shrugs off the remark, however, and drops the wrench in his hand. Without another glance, he walks to the workbench set up against the far wall and grabs the COG dog tags sitting on a toolbox. Baird pretends not to notice or be interested, but he opens his mouth has soon as the question hits him. "What the hell do you do down here? Not like you can fix anything," he says.

He has always been noticeably defensive about someone replacing his field of interest and, as if protective over the COG vehicles, grows noticeably irritated when someone tinkers with the engines. Even if the potential of Marcus doing either is low, Baird still bristles. "A mother hen," Sam had said when she had noticed before, and Cole had to agree.

"Forgot something," Marcus gruffly says. He can take Baird's nagging, bitching, and smartass remarks surprisingly well.  
"No shit Sherlock." Baird looks pensive a moment and asks in an almost normal tone: "How'd you forget them anyway?" Fenix waits a spell for the assured follow-up comment but it doesn't come. He watches Damon regard the wrench he'd given him before putting it to use. "I got distracted," he says, watching the engineer's face. It's almost placid and kind of attractive... "With...?" Baird's glance makes him avert his eyes to the engine. "I'm sure someone has already told you this before, but you fucking suck at small talk."  
"I'm not worried about it." The blonde scoffs, but becomes too distracted by his work to comment further. Marcus takes a few steps closer to watches his handiwork. He could effortlessly hand it to snotty bastard: he has a way with machines... an efficient, smooth way he never has with people. Fenix offers him another tool. Baird glares at him slightly, but accepts what he requires—needing it being the reason for his frown. "Thanks," he mutters after replacing the wrench back on the small bench. 'I didn’t know that words was in your vocabulary,' Marcus nearly says. "Yeah," he mutters instead.

The atmosphere being to feel awkward without their usual bickering so Marcus slips his dog tags back on and begins to head back topside. "You weren't messing with anything were you?" Baird questions. "Some asshole left my tools all over the fucking place yesterday."  
"I didn't touch your stuff."  
"Normal people find fresh air better for thinking," Baird is quick to retort.  
"I guess neither of us are normal then." Finding something he is compatible with Baird on feels... weird. Fenix shakes it off and leaves.

The engine repair moves along delightfully. Within the next two hours Damon finds himself admiring a complete job. It's a wonder he didn't notice this at first. He gazes across the COG vehicles parked down here. Damn, how he will be bored when he finds out there are no more repairs to do! Then what? Float around on this goddamned boat for the rest of his life? "Didn't sign up to be a fucking sailor," he mutters.

Up top Baird wanders into the ship's mess hall and gathers a small pile of cold food for his nonexistent hunger. There are plenty of seats to spare since most of the other COG had already eaten. Only Cole, Anya, and Clayton are sorted around a table. He joins Cole, but puts a fair amount of space between himself and the former thrashball player--he never really knows when the big man will get touchy feely. "Hey, back from the caves!" Cole exclaims with a grin. "Find something to fix?" Anya asks, with a friendly smile.  
"Yep," Baird replies. He shovels a fork full of food into his mouth to avoid further explanation. Even though he doesn't mind socializing with his friends, nobody knows shit about fixing so what's the point in going into the topic? Explaining anything takes too long and is too damn frustrating. Anya seems to take the hint and picks back up on the conversation she was having with Clayton. Something about bacon, and Cole jumps in with some recipe that included bacon as a main component. ‘What the fuck are they talking about bacon for?’ he wonders. ‘Not like we have any.’

Damon switches off listening mode soon afterwards and zones off into his own little world. What should he do tomorrow? Hmm… watch the “sunrise”, eat breakfast, and organize the workbench a little? Maybe somewhere in between clean his weaponry again? Yep, the choices were so fucking endless. He stares at the blob of food on his tray. What is this shit anyway? Beef fused with pork and dashed with chicken to make some sort of Frankenstein cuisine? Yep, he has just officially lost the appetite he never had. He dryly wonders when he'll loose his sense of taste too.

"I'm outta here. See you guys later," he says.  
"What about dinner? You barely ate," Cole protests. Baird shrugs.  
"I'm not hunger."  
"You'll indulge later!" his fellow gear warns.  
"Thanks, but I don't need a nutritionist... or diet helper."

Outside the fresh air feels brilliant. Baird quickly decides he definitely must have been in the hull too long today to actually miss the cool breeze. At least he can miss things on this Goddamned ship. Everything he truly pines for has been taken from him or lost forever. Now all his belongings are standard military, nothing personal and nothing exceptional. He could bitch about it and reign high-hell about everything that’s gone, but he’s learned to detach from that side of reality. He found that acknowledging the matter was merely just another way of approaching depressing and say, “Hey there, wanna fuck me?”

Still, it’s hard not to feeling gloomy anyway. Everyone has their own barricade for blocking it out, but just thinking about their troubled life in general is enough to send any gear spiraling down a steep set of stairs. Like most bad things: easy to fall down and hard as hell to get back up.

Damon sighs: why is he thinking about this again?

He gazes out towards the sun. It never really seems to set out here on the sea, but, rather, just hangs above the water like a big, orange floating buoy. He shutters involuntarily as his gaze falls to watch the waves collapse over one another. Something about large bodies of water has always pitched up his uncomfortable tent… one never really knew what was stirring beneath the water. And with the locust and lambent around, how did they know if there wasn’t some big-ass sea monster swimming around down there thinking: “That ship looks yummy! Maybe I should fuck my diet and take a bite.”?

Talking draws his attention away from the stern: Marcus and Anya (with Anya doing the talking of course). Fenix doesn’t cower easily, but he sure doesn’t seem to have the balls to get serious with her. Marcus catches his gaze, but Baird doesn’t hold it. There’s nothing much to see in those eyes from this distance, and he’s willing to guess it’s the usual: annoyance.

He settles his back against the ship’s side and contents himself with gazing towards the small gardens of crops. They’re growing nice considering the soil is shit-tastic and they have no fertilizer… then again they sort of make up for those defects in their interesting taste. Needless to say, he’s still grateful for fresh vegetables and fruit again (even if they’re seriously rationed).

Three minutes tick away before the blonde finds himself bored and starting to reminiscence of better days… a dangerous road to go down. He pushes himself up from his resting position and leisurely walks towards the front of the ship from the starboard side. Port is the distant outlines of a ghost town of memories. He would rather stare into the water than look at unchangeable destruction.

For putting up a staunch line of “I’m a stuck-up asshole”, Baird can be surprisingly sentimental sometimes. The “I got something in my eye” isn’t always the real reason a stray tear leaks from his eyes. When he had first looked out at the shadow of a former life, Damon almost believed he saw the ghosts of the innocent people who lost their lives to the reckless hatred of the locust. It had driven a stake straight into his emotions, and he had laid in his “sailor’s bed” that night with hot tears chilling his pillow. And he never admitted or spoke of it. How could he? He was “Baird the smart ass”. “Baird the asshole”. And sometimes “Baird the stuck up bitch”.

At the bow of the boat, the engineer leans against the side with arms crossed. His eyes have finally begun to start feeling heavy, but his heart is heavier. The quietude doesn’t bring solace to the gear. No, he needs words and action. The quiet is a trap, the spider’s web where he is the fly. He must have waved the white flag of surrender, because depression has come marching in.

And suddenly a thought strikes him hard and deep: he wants to talk to someone. Really, really talk to someone in one of those heart-to-heart conversations that are generally groundbreaking and tear inducing. (Well, he could go without the tear-inducing part, but the other parts would be nice.) With Cole it’s unquestionably friendship, but somehow talking to Cole about something sentimental feels like it would change their friendship in a way he wouldn’t like. He wouldn’t feel even slightly comfortable talking to Sam. Anya would be just plain weird. Though, he imaged she would be a pretty good therapist, but he didn’t know her well enough to feel comfortable with her either. They only somewhat knew each other from missions and the occasionally chat. The same went for Clayton Carmine and Dom. The guys were nice enough. And Marcus? The boss-man and him were more like… well, he didn’t really know. This makes him frown. What would he consider their relationship? More like work partners or something of the sort. And work partners definitely didn’t talk to each other about personal problems. Maybe they did sometimes, but they had to be close enough. Marcus and him certainly knew some things about one another. Nonetheless what they cultivated was more of “You’re only around because I need you” sort of deal. But that wasn’t really Marcus’ fault. Baird had put up a wall.

Wait, was he trying to make an excuse?

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he wonders aloud.  
“You’re still on your feet, so you’ll probably survive.” Once more the engineer finds a flicker of surprise jolt him. However the usual smart-ass remark doesn’t spring to his mind as usual. “What the hell do you want, Fenix?” he growls, instead.  
“Normal people find fresh air better for thinking,” the Sergeant reminds him. The blonde rolls his eyes, but doesn’t take the bait. When he doesn’t Marcus is quick to pick up. “Something wrong?” The words aren’t set-up as shot, but actually as a real question.  
“My hair is falling out and I don’t want to be bald,” Damon retorts, though his voice lacks the usual punch.  
“That’s too bad,” Marcus replies quietly. “You look better blonde…and with hair.”

At this Baird turns around. His eyes are full of confusion when they first meet Marcus’, but quickly turn accusing. Still, he waits for the Sergeant to talk first. The latter refuses to break the silence, however and irritations turns this idea inside out. He opens his mouth to jump down Marcus’ throat, but the Sergeant takes this moment to speak up. “Well,” he says leaning against the rail beside the Corporal. “What are you doing here?” Baird asks quickly. His voice is surprisingly plain, not laced with the normal sarcasm or annoyance. There is no immediate reply and when he looks over, his curiosity peaks as the Sergeant begins to look uncomfortable at the question. “Marcus?” he ventures to add when there is no reply. Somehow using the boss-man’s first name sends something partial to a blush alight on his cheeks. He tries to hide it by looking away when Fenix glances at him, but he immediately fears the man saw it. “You looked a little lonely,” he says finally, turning his gaze seaside much to Baird’s relief.

However his mind is quickly flooded with his reply. Should he say yes or no? He feels incredibly stupid wondering, but he knows what he says will decide whether or not Marcus will stay longer. Does he want the man to stick around? He finds a frown forming when he realizes he wants Fenix’s company. “Yeah. I am,” he admits hesitantly. “A little anyway.” There is an awkward cough from Marcus.  
“Do you want me to leave?”  
“I just said I was lonely numb-nuts,” Baird retorts. He glances at Marcus. “Do you think—?” The rest of his question shrivels up like a balloon that’s just gushed out all its air. “Um,” he finishes stupidly. Fenix’s eyes are no longer little icebergs, but deep reflections of a pale blue sky. They look honest, secure, and strong. Suddenly Damon finds himself really thinking about how extraordinarily handsome and pensive they are. And since when did Marcus ever look strikingly attractive?

He snaps out of the reverie quickly. What the hell is he thinking? Firstly, Marcus has a girlfriend. Secondly, he is not attractive. “I gotta go,” he mutters, making to slip away. But just when he thinks he’s home free, he feels Fenix’s hand wrapping around his wrist. “Damon,” the Sergeant starts. Again, the blush creeps upon the said Corporal’s face. “I’m not much for small talk, but I can listen… if that’s what you need.” Despite feeling particularly stupid about it, Baird looks up with a simmer of something akin to hope. “Okay,” he manages, his voice tight from his suddenly dry throat. He doesn’t miss the surprise on Marcus’ face. He returns to the ship’s side, looking down questioningly when he notes Marcus’ hand still holding his wrist. Before the Sergeant lets go, he finds the thought that the touch feels kind of nice shooting through his brain. “Sorry,” Fenix mutters.  
“Uh, yeah. S’okay,” Baird replies just as awkwardly.

Silence threatens to loom again, but Marcus speaks up before it can march in. “What’s bothering you, then?” Baird releases a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Nothing unusual, really. We’re stuck on this damn ship. Well, and I-I’m not such a tough-ass as I make out.” He can feel Marcus’ eyes burning into him at this portion. He is at a loss of words suddenly. For having cultivated and known such unpleasant emotions, they are unexpectedly difficult to talk about. This is probably what he gets for being so tight-lipped for so long. Sure he had thought a talk would be nice, but the talking part? Yeah, he hadn’t really thought about all that he’d want to say.

He can tell Marcus is waiting for him to go on, explain what he meant by not being so tough. “It’s just easier, you know?” he blurts out. “Ignoring everything, making jokes about it, and acting like ‘sure the locust blew the shit out of lives, but hey I’m just gonna make a nomad joke about it instead of get sentimental.’” He wants to stop talking. This is stupid! For God’s sake, Damon, this is Marcus not your grandma! But even he is prone to admit he has a motor mouth. Once he really starts talking, the rest is history. “It’s easy that way, sure,” he continues, his voice softer now that he’s arrived at his critical point. “But it just builds up until it’s like this giant weight you’re carrying, but you don’t want to stop and thinking about it… because you’ve already built up a… reputation.” 

With a sigh, Baird suddenly hops into the personal boat. “Look, Fenix, I know I’m always… sort of an asshole to you.” He chances a glance at the Sergeant to see one of his eyebrows raised. “Okay!” He throws his hands up in defeat. “I’m really an asshole to you. But I don’t really mean anything by it.” The blonde gazes reproachfully at the grease stains on his hands.  
“You just need someone to lay off some of the anger you get from holding everything inside for too long,” Marcus replies. Damon glances at his boss in surprise. ‘Since when was Fenix good at this sort of thing?’ he wonders. Nonetheless, a smile gingerly begins to warm his face. “Yeah,” he replies. “I think it might be something like that.”

Moments slip by in silence. However, not the sort of muteness that lingers in a deep awkward, needing words to break it and restore somewhat of a comfortable balance. Instead it is the content sort that smoothly passes by. Nonetheless, Baird wishes he had something more to say. He feels like he made a mole hole out of a mountain, which was not his intention. His mouth opens, but nothing particularly smart wants to come out, so he pretends to lick his lips instead. “I’ll see you later then,” Marcus mutters.  
“Sure,” Baird replies. “And… thanks… for listening.” His Sergeant flashes him a rare smile before heading off.

Damon lingers at the bow longer. He doesn’t feel tired enough to go below. Besides, “his” room is crowded enough between Cole’s and his stuff to make him claustrophobic. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes into regard how he’s feeling now. Besides feeling hungry, he can counter that discomfort with the intriguing knowledge that talking to Marcus has made him feel better. How the hell did that happen? Hadn’t he only scrapped the surface basically?

But maybe that’s all he needed… to scrap the surface. Maybe having someone genuinely listen (or at least from what he could tell) was all the consolation he required. Strange… Damon shrugs anyway. Who is he to judge? If something wants to be a simple fix then by all means: let it be simple!

 

-Λ-


	2. Emotional Stress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When we last left off, Damon Baird was mulling over how talking with Marcus Fenix made him feel better. Now he discovers how that talk has changed how he feels...

“Hey, Damon,” Cole waves him over before the engineer can disappear into the “dungeon”. “Baby, did you have something to do with fruit stash gone missin’ since last night?” Baird manages not to roll his eyes at the word use of "baby".  
“No, Cole,” he lies.  
“Uh-huh.” Cole crosses his arms. “As I recall you didn’t eat much last night.”  
“Since when do I get the late night munchies?” Baird retorts. He tosses his arms up in annoyance before making his way down to the hull.  
“Yeah, okay. Just eat your dinner next time!” Cole shouts down after him, earning the big man a few curious glances.

In the hull Baird finds himself blissfully alone. Damn, Cole and his food sensitivity. If the man insisted on keeping a fruit and vegetable stash (according to the former Thrashball player fruit and vegetables are the same thing, but his stash is actually both), it was going to get raided every once in a while. Somehow the thought makes him smirk, and he keeps the gesture up while he wanders towards the workbench. “Time to clean this craphole up,” he mutters. He’d been putting it off long enough, and granted that was because he hadn’t felt the tidiest since getting on the ship, but it's long since due that that change.

And normally Baird is neat. It's practically in his nature. He likes knowing where he’s put things and being able to just snag what he needs without having to swim through a mess to find it. Though he could partially blame the workbench’s mess on some of the other COG who like to think they’re mechanics, he knows it is mostly his fault. Now that he thinks about it, it’s weird how he hadn’t felt like cleaning this damn place up sooner. “Fucking mess!” he growls, suddenly anger at the disarray. Various, empty containers, dirty tools, used rags, and misplaced things assemble chaotically down the workbench.

It seems as if the clutter has declared war on Baird, and he angrily destroys the vanguard, tossing empty containers and dirty rags in a voluminous receptacle. Next he destroys the enemy’s formation: the tools are sorted. Wrenches are put over here, screwdrivers over there, ratchets after those, and so on. Then he demolishes the “castles” by taking out tools that don’t below in certain drawers and putting them in their correct places. He also adds the tools lying on the workbench into their correct places.

Looking back over the battlefield, he finds the enemy has been successfully demolished. The engineer stands back to admire his handy work. “Perfect,” he purrs with a contented grin. The workbench, while not picture-perfect, is optimum for uncluttered and spacious work. As well, all tools are resting in their proper places. Damon glances at his watch: 1300 hours. But his stomach had already starting talking about lunchtime at least half an hour ago, so he isn’t surprise by this.

Heading up top, he ventures into the semi-crowded mess hall. He crowds his tray with whatever that is left of the good stuff and finds a mostly empty table. Sitting at the end away from the three COGs at the same table, he negotiates his food.

Damon muses he must be really fucking hungry because this shit doesn’t taste too bad. Still, he should definitely work on getting into the mess hall earlier to avoid scrapping off what’s left.

Baird doesn’t linger in the mess hall long. He’s just there to eat, not to socialize (unless his friends are around, and he feels like it). Talking with everyone else was pretty much the same sad story: “My life was blah blah before this shit. I used to like doing blah blah. I was married… blah blah blah.” The engineer can’t take that hearing that shit. It was just depressing, and, frankly, everyone’s story sounded pretty much the same.

So it’s back to the hull then? “Hmm…” he says quietly. Nope, that’s right. He’s going to clean his weap— Suddenly he’s rigid like a statue: by the space set aside for cultivation, Marcus and Dom are watering. This would normally be nothing particularly noticeably, except his Sergeant is shirtless—‘fucking shirtless!’ Baird thinks—and his chest has droplets falling off it. The impressive barrel of a chest seems to glisten under the sunlight. At first the Corporal thinks it’s from sweat, but he catches the expression Dom is sporting and suddenly it’s more possible Marcus got sprayed from pissing off his best friend.

Marcus’ upper body is riveting naked. Muscles chisel bold outlines into his flesh, broad and powerfully built. The large girths of his arms bulge with sinewy smiles when he folds them up. And his thick shoulders seem every ounce more impressive without any clothing draped over them. Down farther, his abdomen sprouts a feathery strip of dark hair that trails down the center of his six-pack abs past the waistline of his pants.

‘How big is he…?’ Baird wonders.

Heat filters fiercely into his groin and before Damon knows it, it has pooled up enough that’s he’s half hard. “What the fuck,” he mouths to himself. He glances down to make sure he’s not sporting anything noticeable. Thankfully not really, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. If anyone bothers to look, they’ll probably notice something is up. Looking up, he sees Marcus has turned in his direction and is watching him. From his distance he can see there is the telltale darkness of a patch of black chest hair. That’s sexy… ‘No it’s fucking not!’ he screams at himself before walking off to Cole and his room rigidly.

There’s no locking mechanism, so Baird immediately sits down on Cole’s bottom bunk and stares at the half-pitched tent in his pants. “Fuck,” he mutters. “No: What the fuck.” He waits, hoping the lack of stimulus will send his betraying anatomy back to its regular, limp stance. But his mind begins to betray him as well. The thought of Marcus with his wet, bare chest fills his mind. And those strong arms and shoulders… those piercing, strong blue eyes. Fuck, those eyes were so handsome and strong. Not mention, the man probably had an impressive package between those legs to suit that body of his. “Goddamnit,” he growls, stopping his hand half down to reach for himself. His idea has absolutely backfired, and Damon is now pitching a full-fledged tent in his pants. He opens his mouth to curse, but the vulgar words surrender and die in his throat as knuckles rap against the room’s metal door. ‘Shit… shit, shit, shit shit, shit…’ is all he can think. “Baird?” He knows that voice. He knows that low-pitched, smooth voice. ‘Fuck!’ He opens his mouth to say anything that would deter the man from opening that door, but instead squeaks: “Yes?”  
“You doing okay?”  
“Sure. Fine. Yep. Why wouldn’t I be?” Baird babbles. His tongue feels loose and useless.  
“You didn’t look so hot earlier.” Hot? ‘Does Marcus think I’m hot?’ He smacks himself. When he doesn't say anything for too long Marcus speaks up again. “Baird?”  
“Uh… yeah, the sunshine… and heat. I just got out from the hull. It’s a little overwhelming sometimes, ya know?” He wonders if his Sergeant is bare-chested still. What would those muscles look like up close? Is his skin soft? “Goddamnit,” he growls. Why can he not stop thinking about that?! “Okay.” Baird breathes a sigh of relief.  
“Thanks. For checking up on me, I mean.”  
“Don’t mention it.” The engineer snorts nervously, because Fenix probably means it. He drops his head on Cole’s pillow in relief as he hears the Sergeant wander off. “Fuck,” he groans.

How close had that been? Too close…

His gaze shifts down. Somehow instead of being deflating from the anxiety attack he almost had, his member is throbbing bitterly beneath the pants almost as if the idea of Marcus being so nearby had triggered an acute sense of arousal. He wants to ignore it, but it has been so long since he’s had a sincere hard-on, it’s almost a sin to. Because of Marcus, though?

The day they met he pretty much hated the man’s guts. Granted that only lasted a few months, because he soon learned that though Fenix is gruff and distant, he’s good soldier and a decent friend. That doesn’t change attraction though, does it? Marcus and him have always had a pretty sensitive and “you’re only here because I need you” sort of relationship. Besides, he has seen Marcus practically naked before. How had this time been different?

Because, what, he really noticed him this time around?

Attraction comes from connective chemistry that zaps two people when they see one another… or something along those lines. He hasn’t really had time to think out the mechanics behind this sort of thing, but he feels certain it doesn’t come from whatever he is feeling. Another pulsing ache from his member jolts him out of his thoughts. Fuck, he is really aroused…

He feels the fluttery sensation in his stomach so often described as butterflies in the stomach. But he knows its adrenaline causing a slack of blood flow into the organ. However, his slightly shaking hand doesn’t falter as it reaches down to his zipper, unzips it, and fishes out his erection. The hard flesh aching and oozing beneath his fingertips is almost surreal. He stares at the stiff extension with surprised, lust-glossed eyes. A soft moan escapes him as he runs his thumb over the slit. There’s no way he can fight this now, so he simply surrenders to the mass assault of pleasure that rides over him. Spitting into his hand, he begins to work on the member with earnest. He pumps the length with a firm grip, pausing every once in a while to knead the tip and pester the head’s slit. His imagination is quick to awaken every memory of Marcus’ flesh and absorb them into a hot fantasy.

He imagines Marcus half-naked, pounding him down in the hull with the smell of grease and arousal’s musk in the air. The Sergeant’s thick cock completely immerses itself into his channel at every thrust, fucking him mercilessly against the hood of one of the Derricks. “Fuck…” he moans, thinking of how tight the fit would be. His grip tightens around his pulsating member, and he yanks the length frantically. He pretends it’s not his own hand, but Marcus’. With one hand holding his flank, the other works Damon’s begging cock. He can almost imagine the rough callouses on the man’s hand kneading out every ounce of pleasure.

Baird’s cheeks gush red as his erotic fantasy drives him over the edge before he can finish his scene. “Fuck… fuck,” he groans. Holding the tip of his cock’s head, he catches the hot semen squirting from the slit into his palm. His body launches into a blissful euphoria as the release’s sensation sweeps over him. “Holy… shit,” he pants, riding this out. More semen spills from the head as he pulls the length a few more times.

As the brunt of the moment ends, he lies lax on the bed trying to catch his breathe. His erection steadily shrinks, but the hazy after cloud of the orgasm lulls over him like a smooth fog cover. He feels so relaxed and… okay. Bringing his semen splattered hand to his face, the momentum of what he’s done suddenly hits him: he has just masturbated to getting fucked by Sergeant Marcus Fenix. His mouth drops open in a mute “O”, but nothing comes out. Baird swallows hard and immediately begins to question his sanity. Does living on a ship have these sorts of side effects normally? It’s just a side effect; he’s not actually “falling” for Marcus, right? “Oh, God,” he starts babbling. “Oh, shit.” He needs to do something now before he really looses it. Pulling the grease rag out of his pocket he wipes his “mess” off and hastily tucks his cock back away.

Silently swearing he’ll never do that again, he opens the door and makes for the ship’s hull. He stalks there like a thief, half-jumping out of his skin and going into cardiac arrest when he bumps into, none other than, Marcus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates still weekly.


	3. Brooding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflection time for Damon Baird.

“Baird.” The voice cuts straight through Damon as he stands there gawking up at Marcus. The man has at least a four inches height advantage and, in his personal space, Baird can easily tell. The Corporal quickly takes four steps backwards, feeling that being chest-to-chest is too close, dangerously close in fact. Damon’s chest seems to tingle as an afterthought sensation from having his Sergeant’s pressed against it. His heartbeat steps up and the butterflies in his stomach start again. The engineer gulps and coughs involuntarily to cover up his awkwardness. “Mar-Fenix,” he manages. His voice is tight; even he can tell. “Uh, see ya around,” he says quickly, slipping past the burly man and cursing himself for being so obviously abashed. His chest rubs against Marcus’ arm as he passes. His mind scatters and more heat pools into his groin. ‘God, not here,’ he pleads. “Yeah...” Marcus’ voice is perked with curiosity and his gaze is burning a hole in Baird’s back, but he doesn’t seem interested in saying anything more.

Baird sends a million silent 'thank yous' nowhere in particular. Then he has an afterthought.

Did he hurt Marcus when he shoved him off earlier? A twinge of guilt pulls at Damon’s heart. He glances over his shoulder as Fenix walks in the opposite direction. No second glance? He bumps into another gear while looking the other way. “Hey, I’m walking here asshole!” he growls. The man holds his hands up in surrender, but Baird hears him call him a jerk as he walks off. “Yeah, fuck you, too.” The gear flips him off, but Baird is ignoring him already. He glances back towards Marcus, but the Sergeant is gone. His heart sinks into a bloody mud puddle and the heat in his groin cools. As he clamors down the metal stairway down into the hull, he reprimands himself for everything that has happened today: Marcus is his friend not his boyfriend. And plus he has Anya as a girlfriend. He is not going to masturbate to getting fucked by him ever again. Falling in love or whatever he’s feeling is a waste of time.

But as he hammers this list into his mind, he finds his heart sinking lower and lower. Does the thought of Marcus not liking him like that really bother him that much? Oh, who the hell is he kidding? Having that “talk” with Marcus obviously kicked something over. He feels different about the Sergeant that much is obvious. But not the kind of different he would have thought. Damon had suspected it would be a more friendly type of different, the sort that enabled him to talk more freely or feel less inclined to bitch at Marcus. Instead, he finds himself getting aroused and horny over situations that would normally make him snort and call Marcus a “show off”. Yeah, definitely not that kind of different…

Down in the hull, he sinks down into the closest chair and cleans his gun methodically. His mind is far, far away, so his hands are on autopilot. Working over the weapon like he has done only thousands of times before barely requires any thought process. Like fixing, he has this down to a science. Cleaning his lancer is such a usual routine it could take him only a few minutes to accomplish the task. Yet, this time his pace is drawn-out. There is contemplation written heavily on his face and the deliberate motions of his hands reflect it.

Afterwards, he sits for a long time. His mind has already run rampant over his inner turmoil while he was cleaning his gun, so his thoughts are simply blank now. He stares across the lot of vehicles. There’s a Derrick that could use an oil change, another one that has trouble starting, and then there’s that other one with broken headlights. But he just sits, staring vacantly.

An hour crawls by and his butt begins to get sore. He still doesn’t move. Another hours crawls by. His back begins to feel horribly stiff. He still refuses to move.

Questions begin to float in his mind, persistently knocking themselves around: What should he do? Does he really feel that way about Marcus? Does Marcus like him? Since when has he starting thinking and saying Marcus instead of Fenix when he sees him? Is he gay?

“Ah, fuck,” he groans, putting his head in his hands. What is he suppose to do? Be stuck on this ship with a man he is falling for? He can’t avoid Marcus forever. There’s simply no way it can be done. And he isn’t even sure if he wants to, which is another problem. Marcus has Anya, his girlfriend, though not legitimately… ‘Stop it!’ he warns himself. There’s no way the Sergeant is gay and, more so, feeling some attraction towards a man like himself. He can’t even believe attraction can ambush someone so suddenly. How doe he know it isn’t just a temporary thing?

He gushes a heavy sigh: who is he kidding? He’s always known he’s had a thing for men. No matter how hard he tried to be attracted to women, it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get any attention from the opposite sex, it’s just he couldn’t seem to feel that chemistry and carnal desire for any of them. He groans in embarrassment, remembering one night, long ago, when he was getting into bed with a nice redhead gear not long after he was forced to join the COG. For the life of him, he couldn’t get himself to want her. In the end she had finally noticed, and they’d just ended up sitting in awkward silence. Finally, she’d laughed and asked if was gay. He scoffs remembering how shell-shocked he had become from the question. At the time he had felt it was imperative to become “normal” like his mother had wanted him to be. She has just laughed all the harder, telling him between gasps of breathe how hilarious it was she almost had sex with a gay man.

What was her name? Evie. Evie Williams. She was an amazing woman. Smart, beautiful, tough, and cocky. He had decided he’d liked her since the day they met, which was a sincere oddity since most people he met he ended up disliking and making most of them dislike him along the way. Plus, the manner in which their friend relationship began hadn't exactly been normal. But Evie had a way with words and a smile that made her different. He thought that the way he felt about her meant he was falling for her, but in the end it just met he was feeling more of a sister-brother bond.

In the end, everything turned out okay that night. With the both of them sitting in bed half-naked, she had coaxed him into talking about how he felt. It was a real breakthrough for him, because he had always kept his homosexuality in a box labeled “This Does Not Exist; Do Not Fucking Open”. She had actually called his mother an asshole for making him neglect his true self. He smiles, thinking about that now. How could he forget her for one second? She had been a great friend to him.

Suddenly he feels a sincere ache for her company. The warmth of her smile, the bubbly mirth coating her laughter, and that feeling he got of being able to be honest around her. She was the only one, outside his immediate family, that knew about his sexual orientation and the only one who accepted it. (His dad didn't really count since ole' Daddy-o was happier pretending he didn't even know.)

No doubt she would have advice for him now. Being so cocky and surely as always, she would tell him go talk to Marcus or go do it herself.

He swipes away the heaviness of tears.

Evie Williams had died a few months after E-Day. He had held her hand, watching the lights slowly go out in her soft green eyes. Her grip had been nearly unbearable it was so tight, but he didn’t blame her, not for one fucking second. There were no anesthetics for the pain, because there was no medic nearby… not for at least fifteen minutes. They both knew she didn’t have that kind of time left. The explosion had severely severed her left leg and her right was just a bloody stump, amputated right below the knee. Evie was loosing blood too fast. He had lost all sense of emotional control, watching her die and not being able to lift a damn finger to do anything. He was scared, confused, and blameful. But all she did was look up into his eyes and smile, smile that perfect, charming Evie smile. And then she was gone.

“Hey.” Baird jumps out of his chair and knocks it backwards in surprise, nearly flipping over the food tray in front of him in the process. “Jeez, take some anxiety pills or something.”  
“Fuck you,” he grumbles, picking the chair back up. He glances between Sam and the food tray afterwards. “This isn’t the mess hall.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re the one that won’t come up and eat like normal people. Cole fixed up a tray. Something about not wanting his stash to get raided again.” Baird feels too emotionally scattered to scoff or snap out a smart-ass comeback. He can tell Sam is waiting for it, though. And he even has something pretty snarky to say, but he doesn’t feel the vigor to put the needed punch behind it. “Yeah. Well, thanks for being the delivery girl,” he retorts lamely. Sinking back into his chair, he waits for her to set the food down and leave. It couldn’t possibly be dinnertime already, could it? Fuck, he has majorly lost sense of time if it is. “Okay…” Sam says slowly. She is obviously surprised at his “tame” attitude. “Are you feeling sea sick or something?” Damon manages to snort.  
“No,” he grumbles. “Look,” his gaze jumps to her eyes, “you brought the food and I said ‘thanks’, you can go now.” Now that there’s someone around, he realizes he is absolutely no mood for company. “Fine.” She drops the tray loudly on the workbench, sloshing some of the contents off and onto the slate gray metal. “Be a dick.” She marches back towards the stairway and clamors up them.

How the fuck did he miss her coming down?

Baird stares at the food tray and begins to feel guilty about kicking her out like that. Sam was just trying to help. And what had he done? The traditional Baird thing: “thanks and fuck you”. His mother would be proud to see how much he had grown up to be like her. His stomach complains loudly as he catches a waft of the tray’s contents. At least she remembered what he likes. Grabbing the tray, he sets it down on his lap. Should he eat it upstairs? Nah, there would be too many people, too many questions, and… Marcus. He’s known the man for how long now, and now he can’t even stand to see him another second? And not in the “I can’t fucking stand you!” way many people would be inclined to think. With a sigh he starts eating. At least Sam remembered to grab him a fork. Sometimes he doesn’t even remember to do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Marcus and Damon are actually pretty much the same height. The details were just slightly adjusted for personal preference.


	4. One of Those Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon's day doesn't start out as the best, and when Marcus drops a mini-bomb on him, the rest of the day turns out crap-tastic.

Morning brings a fierce backache and a tender neck. “Holy shit,” Baird moans as he lifts his face off the workbench. He gingerly gets up and places both palms against his back. Pushing in, he earns a sharp crack, but it brings some relief. He executes a few more stretches, hungry for the ache to leave his body. When he figures that’s as good at it’ll get, he plops back down into his chair.

The blonde yawns widely and absently wonders when he fell asleep. And what time it is now?! He jumps and nearly catapults himself towards the stairs, but trips over a heavily filled toolbox. “Shit!” he yelps, pitching over. Something sharp cuts against his face as he hits the floor nosily. “Ow! Shit, ouch!” he exclaims, rolling off the toolbox. He touches the right side of his face. When he draws his hand back there’s blood. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” He wipes his hand on his pants. “Not to today,” he grumbles. “Not fucking today. This day has barely begun…” His voice dies off on a soft note: He has finally caught sight of the tray.

Sitting on the workbench is a proportioned meal. He relaxes and sighs, immediately thinking it was Sam. The blonde feels a rare gush of guilt for his behavior. “Thanks,” he mutters to no one in particular. Getting up, he sits down on the “all-nighter” foldout chair and examines breakfast. Yep, looks good enough. He grabs one of the cleanest rags he can find nearby and presses it against his right cheek. From what he can tell the cut is back a ways on his cheek bone, tapering up past his eyebrow. “Just what I fucking need,” he mumbles. At least his goggles are still in one piece. He's had those damn things since before E-day. Turning his attention to his meal, he wolfs it down.

~

There’s a medical bay, but he doesn’t feel like checking in and having someone poke his face. He already knows he’ll live, so what’s the point? He just needs a mirror so he can tell what sort of bandaging he’ll need.

Up top he gets strange looks from some of the gears he passes. He ignores them. What does he care if they’re wondering why Baird is holding a greasy, bloody rage against his face? He heads for his room. Cole has a mirror, and he has a small stash of medical supplies he “borrowed” from the medical bay in case of that sudden one-in-a-lifetime emergency actually came around.

Then, casually walking towards him, he sees Marcus Fenix.

A-fucking-gain?! Seriously?

Damon feels immensely stupid for it, but he turns around and starts heading back the other way. It isn’t until Marcus calls out his name that he forces himself to stop. “What’s up boss-man?” he asks as casually as he can as he turns around. There’s a nervous edge to his voice, however. And he noticeably is awkward about the whole situation. Unfortunately Fenix notices, but he's paying more attention to the rag pressed against Damon’s face. “What happened?”  
“Oh, this? Just a little accident. Nothing really.”  
“Let me see.”  
“What?” Baird swallows in surprise. ‘What the fuck, what the fuck…’ he thinks. It’s happening again: Marcus is showing concern where concern isn’t due. “Uh, okay… if you insist.” He pulls away his hand, flinching slightly.  
“Looks like shit.” Baird coughs out an awkward, but honest chuckle.  
“Yeah... But it’s not too bad, right?”  
“I just said it looked like shit, Baird.” With a look of thought he adds: “Close your eye.” Damon complies, but keeps his other eye open in intense curiosity. “You’re trying too hard to keep one open.”  
“Fine,” Damon grumbles, closing them both. He tries to look placid, but is twitching with persistent curiosity. He almost jumps when he swears he feels the feather-light touch of… fingers? It seems doubtful, but he is certain there was something damn close to contact near the site of the cut. “So, can I open my eyes now or do you want me to be blind a little longer?” Baird whines. “If you haven’t noticed I need to do something about that.” He wonders if that whine was a little forced. “Yeah.” The blonde’s eyes snap open.  
“Glad I passed the inspection. See ya around.” He snakes past Marcus, managing to avoid physical contact, but gaining a hell of a “WTF” look.  
“I want to talk to you later.” Baird freezes. “After dinner.”

Then Fenix is walking away like nothing happened.

Damon feels a gust of anger swell inside him, and he’s glad for it. At least he can still get mad at Marcus with these stupid feelings swimming around. Why does the man have to be so blunt and unspecific sometimes? Would it really kill him to add some juicy details instead of offering up a skeleton of a sentence? Jeez, the guy could really learn a thing or two about making conversations. For fuck’s sake you don’t just tell a man you want to see him after a dinner and leaving him hanging!

What would Marcus want to talk about with him anyway?

Baird spends the rest of the day thinking about that question, pacing, doing miscellaneous chores, and answering the question: “What the hell happened to your face?” To his friends his tells the truth… mostly. Cole gets the bare truth, because he desires that much. Carmine, Anya, and Sam get a slightly modified and less embarrassing version. To everyone else, the answer depends on what he feels like. Why tell the truth, he figures, when you can play a game with yourself and see what suitable lie you can make instead? Once he says, “A knife fell off a shelf.” Another time: “I had to kick someone’s ass.” And “Engineering isn’t as safe as you think it is.” They might eventually figure out he's loading them up on crap, but he doesn't really care.

When he finds himself in the mess hall munching on dinner, he is almost shitting bricks. Since when has become nervous about talking with Marcus alone? Well let’s thing… does since the day after yesterday sound fucking right?

Cole gives up making conversation with him because he’s too scatter-brained and just nods and says things like “Yep.”, “Sure.”, and “Huh?” too much. He knows his friends suspect something is up. Anya even makes a small effort to squeeze it out of him, but there’s no way he’s going to say anything to her.

Per usual, Dom and Marcus sit at the same table. This makes things all the worse, because of the lack of space. Thankfully Dom is full of the spirit of conversation today and keeps Marcus fully enhanced in the details about growing turnips. Baird sneaks glances at the Sergeant whenever he thinks the moment is right. It feels like a stupid, childish thing to do, but it satisfies something in him. After Fenix catches his glances twice, he quits. Why wait till the third time to learn his lesson? Besides, Anya is starting to glance between the two of them and even whispers something to Sam. ‘What the fuck?’ he immediately thinks and spends the next few minutes heavily debating what she might have told Sam. His mind almost completely runs away with blown up conclusions. The result is him starting to feel nervous, which is a strange thing for Damon. Normally, he’s staunch.

Marcus has really shaken his core, tipped his scale, and broke his balance.

Having tried to eat slowly at first with the thought of delaying the inevitable, he now wolfs down what’s left on his plate. Fuck, he needs to get some air. Anything is better than sitting here playing “peek-a-boo” with Marcus. And who knows what Anya’s feminine intuition is telling her and, in turn, she is telling Sam? “Leaving already, baby?” Cole protests as soon as Baird stands. His mind starts repeating the word ‘fuck’ at a hundred miles an hour when everyone at the table turns to look at him. “We’ve have barely seen you in the past few days!” He manages a normal shrug.  
“Some of us have work to do,” he replies with a dramatic eye roll. (Thank God he’s been a smart-ass his whole life.) Cole snorts, but there’s the usual sunny smirk on his face. “I’ll see you guys later.” There’s a hasty exchange of good-byes in return as Baird barely manages to stop himself from launching towards the door.

The fresh air feels fantastic. It kisses his skin gently, easing away the onset of perspiration and filling his lungs and nose with a mostly clean scent. The mess hall gets smelly when it’s crowded.

Damon exhales loudly. Suddenly, he realizes he feels like shit. How did that just pounce on him? His back and neck are horribly achy, his face is throbbing, and he’s tired. Apparently spending the night with a chair and workbench as a “bed” is just asking for trouble. “Ugh,” he groans, rubbing the back of his neck. These last days have been some pretty fucked up ones as far as the standards go. He starts to think about Marcus wanting to talk, but hears footsteps approaching from behind. Anticipating whom it is, he turns. Yep. It’s Marcus. “So what did you want to ‘talk’ about?” Baird immediately regrets doing finger quotes, because, to him, it implies action. And what kind of action? In his current set of confusing emotions there’s only one kind. His cheeks start to burn, but he can’t turn around now because he’s only just turned to face his Sergeant. “You look worse than you were the s’morning,” Marcus says simply. Baird shrugs, thanking God for the Sergeant's seemingly obliviousness. “We’ll talk in my quarters.”  
“Okay…” Damon tries to keep the concern and curiosity out of voice, but the word was practically dripping with them. He manages to ignore Marcus’ questioning look and says: “Are we going or what?”


	5. Alone In His Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon talks to Marcus. Things turn out differently than he'd imagined they would...

The walk to the Marcus' quarters is short, or at least it’s short in reality. But to Baird, walking with Marcus alone, it feels like they've been walking for a mile in slow motion before they finally come close to reaching their destination. There is no conversation to break the silence. Fenix is legendary at playing the silent game. And for Damon: what is there to possibly say that wouldn’t be awkward? That's where he's most comfortable, too: talking, just blabbering away about something. So silently following Marcus like a puppy is enough to twist his nervous chain choking tight. He tries not to appear this way however, but goes for the bored look. Maybe he succeeds, maybe he doesn’t. Marcus doesn’t comment and only gestures for him to step inside Dom and his room when the arrive at it. As Baird passes the man, however, he suddenly realizes Marcus is nervous too.

‘What the fuck?’ Since when has that legendary tough cookie gotten nervous? Instead of being able to feed off the man’s lack of confidence, Damon’s sinks even lower. Still, he finds himself interested as he looks around the small room he’s stepped into. Most of the possessions aren’t anything special and he can’t even tell what belongs to whom. But knowing this is where Marcus actually stays is interesting nonetheless.

Behind him, the Sergeant closes the door behind them with a deep sigh, that exhale of breath before inhale of blurting out big news—or at least Baird thinks of. And with that in mind, Damon does exactly what’s he’s good at and known for: he opens his mouth.

“Okay, so what’s the deal?” he asks. “Why do you want to talk? I don’t know what’s going on, but asking me to come here? It’s fucking weird... Actually, ever since the other day when I talked to you things have been really fucking weird. Are you trying to make things worse for me? Because that’s what you’re fucking doing! I’m really f-ing confused so I hope this is suppose to be an enlightened little meeting!” He’s yelling. When did he start yelling? “Baird, calm down.” Marcus almost looks flabbergast at his outburst, which is kind of funny. Damon feels high from a buzz of adrenaline and giggles almost like someone with mania. Who knew talking to Fenix would be the equivalent of getting high? “Calm? I slept on a fucking chair last night to avoid you! What do you know about 'calm'?” Immediately after the words leave his mouth, the blonde regrets it. Did he really have to tell him that? And of course Marcus knew about 'calm'. The man was fucking born calm! “Shut up, Damon.” The blonde’s mouth closes like the words are spell. His cheeks are burning, and he feels lightheaded. His mother’s words about homosexuality are running rampant in his mind. He wants out of this room. It’s claustrophobia-topia in here! What if he gets turned on? What if Marcus notices and doesn’t like it? What if Marcus knows he's gay?!

“Sit down.” Fenix gestures towards the bunks. Baird drops down onto the bottom bed. He fumbles with his fingers to hide the sudden case of shaking. He’s terrified. The last time someone figured out he was gay, two guys beat the shit out of him in the bathroom. If Cole hadn’t come along, he would have been soup on the floor for the janitor to mop up later. The only other living person (after his parents died) that knew about his orientation was Evie, and she had died soon afterwards. He's tried not to take that as a coincidence.

“What are you afraid of?” Marcus asks.  
“I’m not afraid.” He cringes at the razor-sharp edge of his voice. “Sorry," he mutters. The Sergeant doesn’t respond and sits on the lower bunk at the edge. Baird sneaks a glance over at him. He tries not to, but he can’t help admiring the man’s facial construction and burly arms. “I want to tell you something I didn’t get the chance to tell you the other night.” Other night? ‘He means when we had that ‘talk’?’ Baird wonders. He trains his eyes on Marcus’ lower lip. “I know you’re gay.” Holy shit, the guy is telling him he knows he's gay, and he doesn't even have the balls to look him in the eye? It’s an odd initial thought, but it passes violently fast. Fenix knows Damon is gay and wants to talk to him alone?

The blonde jumps up to stand and smacks the top of his head against the top bunk. “Ow! Holy fuck! Ow!” he cries out, rubbing his head with both hands. He catches Marcus looking at him surprise. He waits for the aggression. He knows there’s going to be aggression!

…Where’s the aggression…?

Marcus, besides portraying a quick show of surprise, is his usual, normal self. Even his eyes are clear… they look honest, secure, and strong like that one night they talked. Damon starts to calm down a little, and then Fenix opens his mouth again. “We have that in common.”  
“What?!” he screams. “I—you—Anya—! Anya and you?”  
“She realized…” Sheepishness starts to surface on Marcus’ face, which looks odd because emotions have never been a natural thing for the Sergeant to show, or so it’s always seemed. Suddenly the way Anya acted in the mess hall makes a little sense. “Oh,” Baird says. His voice is barely audible, but it is enough for something to flicker in the Sergeant’s eyes. Hope? Damon swallows hard, his saliva seemingly unusually thick. He sits back down, not feeling he can stand up anymore. Silence melts over them, and Baird realizes Marcus is waiting for him to say something. His 'okay'? His thoughts? Something? He opens his mouth, but nothing wants to come out. That has to be a first time, but he’s still incredibly shocked: Nothing goes right for him. How could this go right?

“So…” he starts, awkwardly. “Erm, you’re telling this because you need someone to talk to about it or something?” That’s just his way of edging around the truth. Damon really wants to know if Marcus is telling him because he likes him. Suddenly that erotic fantasy in his room seems plausible. ‘Fuck this is so awkward…’ He forces himself to look back into Marcus’ eyes, to search his face for answers or show him he expects a response. He’s shocked to find something akin to a… smile? “You can smile?” He grins stupidly at his question. It disappears as the Sergeant stands. Is he leaving now or something…? The burly gear steps towards Baird and sits so close to him they’re nearly touching. A shock wave sends tingles of electric pulses up and down Damon’s spine when Marcus’ leg knocks against him.

‘Oh, God… I hope he kisses me,’ he thinks when the Sergeant looks straight into his eyes.

Thoughts turn into reality, and Damon is swept away on the abrupt tidal wave of its coming. He can see Marcus leaning towards him, see the embrace coming, but his mind slips to realize what it means. His body stiffens in surprise as his eyes widen. But the feeling sinks in like a gentle song. Having Marcus’ lips pressing against his is mute but resonating. The Sergeant is surprisingly gentle and warm, contrastive to the aggressive, distant exterior. His lips are relaxed and soft, a coaxing touch. Damon closes his eyes, slipping into the depths of the moment.

They fit together like a missing piece of a puzzle.

Marcus draws away and watches Baird keep his eyes closed for a moment longer before opening them. He had felt nervous and curious about doing this—asking Baird to Dom and his room, talking, and trying to kiss him (that, admittedly had been an irrepressible afterthought). But there had been no doubt something had gone through Baird the night they talked, but in a world where reality is rarely full of pleasantries, he had opted to remain cautious and distant as usual. But watching the Corporal, he could see there was a storm brewing beneath the man’s exterior, roaring waves of emotional conflict and indecision.

Cole had been more of an observer and audience than Marcus realized because after he had knocked on Damon’s shared quarter’s door, the former thrashball player had wanted to have a word with him. Cole had asked him straight out if he is in the pink house. Fenix could tell by the stance and look in Cole’s eyes he was protecting Baird. So he had manned up, said, “I’ve never had a thing for women.” Afterwards Cole had rewarded him with a big grin and told him about a gear named Evie Williams. He emphasized that Williams had told him something very personal about Baird because she had thought he deserved to know and that what he was about to tell Marcus because he believes the same.

Gay. The Sergeant could never look at the fellow Delta member the same. Every time he caught a glimpse of Baird, he saw the man’s traits in a new light. His face was suddenly incredibly handsome, his eyes full, and his sleek body more attractive than ever. And way the Corporal acted around him did nothing to help. Even a blind man could tell that being too close to Marcus flustered Damon.

Yet, talking to Baird alone had been harder than the Sergeant had anticipated. After the initial wave of nervousness had passed, however, he found his confidence. Somehow Baird was centering him, so the words came when they needed to.

Marcus looks into Damon’s eyes now that they've opened. There is a new light twinkling within the depths of those electric blue eyes. He can tell.

“Kiss me again?” Baird whispers. He shivers as their lips touch. Marcus is still gentle, but brings more passion and fire this time. Damon doesn’t reject the tongue that licks over his lips. He opens his mouth in invitation, and Fenix is immediately inside, stroking against his tongue. They entwine in an erotic dance. He let’s Marcus dominate him, because it feels so good to let go. He’s always been a fighter, pushing against people so they know they can’t walk all over him. But having Marcus dominate him right now is a whole different scenario. He’s okay with it. He wants it.

Damon’s hands reflexively grab the top of Marcus’ shoulders as the man explores, probes, touches, memorizes. His cheeks fill with red as arms entwine around his waist, holding him gently and firmly. A shutter courses over his body from the lack of familiarization.

Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean Baird goes around kissing men. In fact, he’d managed not to kiss even one—as per part of the deal for getting his rightful inheritance: he had to serve in the COG and be “normal”. Marcus is the first time he’s felt lips against his and truly enjoyed it. The blend of rough, dominant, and strong flings him upside down. It sends emotions and sensations up and down his body in spasms, overly confirming that he’s been homosexual his whole life.

The urge to breathe breaks them apart. Damon drinks in the air hungrily, feeling his breath literally taken away. He watches Marcus do the same. He feels the heat of scarlet highlighting his cheeks and wonders: what should he say? A stray, faint gasp escapes his kiss-swollen lips as Marcus’ hand stray south to cup and gently squeeze his rump. The man’s gunmetal blue eyes never leave Damon’s as he touches him. The words written within them are as clear as they are unspoken: I want you, but I need to know you want me like that, too.

The blond shivers. Heat begins to pool into his groin; the knowledge of Marcus’ hands being on him is simply too much for him not to react to. He draws a stuttering breath as Fenix’s hands rough handle him and dexterously slip in his natal cleft. More heat swells into his groin making his cock twitches to life. Gingerly, the blonde lowers his right hand from Marcus’ shoulder and trails down to his waist. He undoes the clip for the Sergeant’s utility belt and takes care of any other barriers that would restrict his hand from removing the man’s sexual anatomy. Marcus’ eyes are glazed with lust and curiosity when Damon looks into them. It gives the blonde the reassurance he needs.

He eases out the Sergeant’s cock. Fuck. Damon stares stupidly for a moment. Its half-hard arch is thick and long. Eyes never leaving, he gets off the lower bunk and gets on his knees between Marcus’ legs. Removing his right hand’s glove, he grabs the cock’s length and slowly pulls up to the head. The muscle feels slick, hot, and full in his hand. He thumbs the tip’s slit, feeling the pre-cum starting to leak out. Marcus stiffens as he leans in close and draws his tongue over the cock’s head. It tastes salty and fleshy. He would probably gag in any other situation, but right now he feels unusually slutty.

Drawing his tongue up and down the length, he laps the cock’s head vigorously until Marcus issues a low groan. Damon’s own member is quick to respond, twitching in need in his pants. The blonde ignores it for now, focusing his attention on loosening his muscles as he swallows the tip of Marcus’ cock. He lathers the thick head with saliva and sucks on it like a straw. Then, slowly, he eases as much more of the length as he can into his mouth. Marcus is too long and thick for everything to fit, so Baird does his best with what he can manage. He gingerly bobs his head back and forth until he picks up a steady pace. Gagging is hard as hell, but he manages surprisingly well.

“Fuck…” he hears Marcus softly groan.

Pulling the hard cock out of his mouth with a pop, the blonde jerks the length rapidly. He watches Marcus’ face tighten from the pleasure. Fuck, if that isn’t the most arousing look… Baird’s cock presses hard against his pants. He licks the man’s length once more before pulling back. “Fuck me.” Surprise flickers in gunmetal blue eyes as they meet electric blue ones. Baird stands, and Marcus does the same. Damon lets his Sergeant push him against one of the walls and grind into him. He shutters as Marcus’ hot breath tickles the nap of his neck and a tongue tastes the flesh behind his right ear. Teeth suddenly sink into the flesh, and he yelps in surprise. “Fuck,” Baird moans as Marcus sucks and licks the spot as if sympathetic to the moment of pain.

The Sergeant wastes no further time in enacting Baird’s request, however. His arms slips around the slender man’s body and does the clip of his utility belt. It hits the metal floor loudly. Damon’s pants are pulled down next. He shutters as the cool air hits his naked legs. Marcus’ hands trail up his thighs and grip his buttocks. He fondles the muscles, before a finger strays into Damon’s naval cleft. Baird inhales sharply as the tip of the finger ghosts over his rosebud entrance. Marcus’ other hand reaches around and finds Damon’s hard cock. The Sergeant slowly begins stroking the length as the finger swivels around his entrance, slowly pushing in. The intrusion feels uncomfortable, unnatural, but the blonde doesn’t fight it. The gloved hand, roughing his cock is too distracting if anything. He’s still very aware of the finger stroking and exploring his channel, however. It feels weird having the weather-beaten finger probe into his silky soft and sensitive insides. Another finger slips instead and this time Damon jumps. The stretch of two of Marcus’ thick fingers is painful. He tries to get away from the pain, but he’s stuck between Marcus and the wall, so he tries to focus on Fenix’s hand on his cock instead. His chest tightens as he feels a rough thumb rub across his slit. The slickness of his pre-cum creates a natural lubricate for the Sergeant’s thumb to easily slip around the head. The blonde moans as the hand around him tightens and begins pumping his length faster.

The submerged fingers slowly begin to move, pulling out and slipping back in. Marcus is fingerfucking him. ‘Oh, God…’ Baird thinks. His cheeks burn, but a moan weasels out of him as the pace hastens. The fingers make scissor motions drawing out pain that blends so well with the pleasure. “Fuck…” the blonde rasps. “Faster. Faster, please…” he begs, bucking into his Sergeant’s hand. The fingers drive into his hole with restrain. He rides out the pain, thrusting his cock into Marcus’ hand. His lack of control sends him close to the edge, and he can feel his release bubbling in his stomach down to his groin. “Marcus,” he warns. “I-I…”  
“Cum,” his Sergeant orders into the shell of his ear. He drives his fingers deep into Baird hard, scissoring into the soft flesh. The blonde yelps, hips bucking forward into Marcus’ tight hand. The Sergeant milks him with long pumps up and down his cock. White semen squirts from the swollen head, splattering into the wall. Damon pants and bucks his hips as Marcus keeps jerking his length until his entire load is released.

Damon’s legs feel incredibly weak, his body trembling from the momentum of the orgasm. He watches Marcus bring two cum stained fingers to his face. The engineer opens his mouth and the fingers slip into his mouth. He licks the slick liquid off them, sucking on the fingers as well. The fingers inside his channel, twirl in semi-circles and stroke his soft flesh. He opens his mouth to release a soft moan.

Marcus removes both his fingers in the blonde’s mouth and channel.

He awkwardly gets Baird down onto the floor and onto his hand and knees. Standing behind the Corporal, Marcus drinks in the sight of the blonde’s pale hindquarters. Though Baird’s saliva has made is cock already rather slick, the Sergeant uses plenty of his own saliva to rub along the length of his member. Once it is throbbing and glistering with saliva, he rubs it against Damon’s rosebud entrance.

Baird arches his back into the touch. He knows it’s the head of Marcus’ cock. The thick tip rubs against him and slides up and down his natal cleft. Damon’s cock twitches and starts to fill in again. He bites his bottom lip as the arousal plants an intense seed of desperation in him. “Just fuck me,” he groans as the teasing doesn’t let up.

The blonde gasps as the cock’s head stretches him open. A dull pain awakens, but the thought of being filled up with Marcus’ length is enough to make him too horny to care. His own cock jumps from semi-hard to aching. “Oh, God,” he moans, as the head sinks into his channel. Slowly more of the length follows. It stretches him more than the two fingers, but the sensation of being filled up until he is so tight is good. He arches his back, taking his Sergeant’s length until there’s nothing left. Damon’s cock twitches impatiently, but the Corporal wants to cum just from Marcus fucking him. He rocks himself on the motionless, pulsating erection to let Fenix know he’s ready.

The Sergeant rocks his hips back until only the tip of his head is submerged before filling Baird back in again. He repeats the action, going a little faster each time. Damon moans with each thrust, begging him to keep going, and, occasionally, to go faster. As Fenix shifts for a better angle, Baird suddenly cries out pleasure. The Sergeant’s cock had plunged into a sensitive bundle of nerves and electrified his body with a trembling, roaring sense of heightened pleasure. “Fuck! There, Marcus, please, fuck there…”

Marcus pounds his cock into the smaller man’s channel, aiming for the sensitive, responsive flesh. His pace is wild and unsuppressed, hips rocking back and forth as fast as he can achieve. He’s squeezing out every inch of sexual frustration he’s encountered before this mount. The tight fit of Damon’s channel pulls at his cock ever time he plunges inside the path and the silky flesh beckons his cock like an addiction, pulling him into a rapturous haze. The Sergeant grabs the blonde’s hips in a bruising hold, his fingernails biting in the man’s soft flesh.

Damon’s front arms tremble and break under him, unable to keep up with the pace. Marcus is brutal, but Damon wants it hard. Fuck, he wants his brains fucked out so badly. “Yes, please, yes,” he moans. He wants to cum again, feel the bliss of ejaculation. “Marcus,” he groans as the gear’s fingernails break his skin. He rides through the rough, pleasurable and painful treatment feeling his cock bouncing with restrain against the cold armor on his abdomen and the warm of his naked thighs. It aches to be pumped, but he ignores it. He still wants to cum just from his Sergeant’s cock plunging in and out of him.

Behind him Marcus releases a low moan, his fingers racking down Baird’s buttocks. Damon bites his lip at the pain, but it’s not just pain: it’s good pain. “Damon,” Marcus pants. The blonde feels the strong hands clench his flesh bitterly hard. The Sergeant’s cock drive as deep into him as possible. He is overwhelmed by the sudden sensation of something thick and wet discharging into his channel.

That’s all he needs. Damon’s second orgasm breaks over him like a tidal wave. His cock burst into action, semen spilling from the slit at his head. As Marcus finishes milking himself into Baird, the Corporal is half way down spilling over the floor. Unable to resist he reaches down to his discharging erection and pumps the rest of the sticky fluids out of it before collapsing in sheer exhaustion. The motion pulls Fenix’s cock out him, but Damon is too tired to care. He lays dazed, feeling Marcus’ release starting to spill out of him.

“Baird?” Marcus’ voice breaks him half-way out of his stupor.  
“Damon,” he corrects, turning his head so that he can grin at the man. He watches the Sergeant’s gunmetal blue eyes soften with from a smile small. Fuck, he looks so handsome. Baird turns to get a better look at him, and Marcus shifts out from between his legs so he can. Looking at the Sergeant’s limp arms, Damon suddenly wants to be held in those arms. Another man has never held him like that. His father’s hugs were always brisk and a surprise, nothing at all like a loving embrace and don't even get him started on his mother. Besides, no one else could even begin to count because there is something going on between Marcus and him. That weird love-chemistry-thing is happening to them.

The blonde shifts upright, wincing at the unpleasant pain blossoming in his hindquarters. Fuck, he is going to one sore MF later...

Once on his knees he lets himself fall against Marcus’ chest. His armor is cold, but by the way the Sergeant’s arms slowly wrap around him after the initial uncertainty and surprise break away, Damon can tell his heart is warm. “I didn’t take you for the cuddling type,” Marcus mutters, making the engineer smile. “I’m not,” he assures him. “I’m just making an exception.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the story! It was tons of fun to write. Trusting the content of the chapter made up for the length. Hope you guys had fun reading. :)  
> As a side note: I plan to keep posting stories for this amazing pairing, but you can show your love for these guys by writing stories of your own!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Gears of War story to be posted, so I'm super excited to have this out! However, I hope Marcus Fenix is in-character enough and not too OC throughout the story. Why is his character so hard to capture? :P
> 
> Additional chapters will be posted weekly.


End file.
